


What You Make

by Patchouli (lifelesslyndsey)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, I don't know what jacksons parents' names are so they're Carol and James now okay, Stilinski Family Feels, family is what you make it people, jackson family feels, mentions of infedelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 11:59:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifelesslyndsey/pseuds/Patchouli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the Kanima, and becoming a werewolf, Jackson is left still dealing with a plethora of issues.  Stiles is there to shed a little light on one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What You Make

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after Jackson becomes a werewolf, after the Kanima and such. We can say they dealt with Gerard and tied up those loose ends, leaving the world to it's usual chaos. Jackson IS a part of the Hale Pack. Where this will go, I can't be sure (pairing, story, ect, I have no idea). Tentatively speaking, it COULD become StilesxJackson. 
> 
> Not beta-edited, but briefly beta-read. Mistakes are mine, of course.

Jackson has never liked being alone with Stiles.  It makes his skin crawl, and his fists clenched. Something about the way the kid moves, fast and sharp and aborted; it sets off a hunting instinct Jackson only recently understands.   Jackson eyes his own doorway, wondering how insane it would be just to leave Stiles alone in the Whittamore den, among the crisp modern color scheme and barely-used family couch.

 

“What do you want, Stilinski?” He barks, ignoring the throb of an oncoming headache building behind his eye.  For all the things werewolfism could cure, headaches were not among them. Couldn’t cure him of Stiles.

 

Stiles doesn’t say anything, just lays a piece of paper - no, a photograph - on the coffee table between them.

 

If only to get the whole thing over with, Jackson picks it up. It’s a woman, with strawberry blonde hair, and almond-shaped green eyes. She has freckles, and curls, and thin, bird-like features.

 

She’s pretty, in a sharp way, not unlike Lydia. The woman could easily be an Aunt, or a distant cousin. “Should I know who this is?”

 

Stiles smiles. “That’s my mother, actually.”

 

Looking back down at the photo, Jackson frowns. The resemblance is not there, not anywhere in the photo. Infant-Stiles could not look less like the woman. Grown-Stiles is no different.

 

Stiles must see it in his face, the confusion. “I know. I look like my father.”

 

“The sheriff has blue eyes.” It’s not the most delicate thing to say. Jackson might not be a genius, but he knows enough about genetics that the combination of green and blue do not produce Stiles’ specific shade of whisky brown. Also, his father is dirty-blond, and his mothers’ particular shade of red isn’t the kind you buy from a bottle.

 

“I said my father.” Stiles stares at him as the pieces fall into place, and Jackson can’t like and say he isn’t stunned by this new information. "It's not something that comes up in polite conversation, and with my mother gone, it's easy for people to convince myself I must look like her. My dad doesn't know that I know of course. No one even knows, outside my family. Not even Scott." 

 

“How could he not?” He means Stiles' father, not Scott. Scott's a fucking moron. It’s obvious, with the right information, like the photograph in Jacksons hand. It’s obvious to anyone who isn’t a complete moron, and Stiles is many thing, but stupid is not one of them.

 

“Willful ignorance?” Stiles shrugs. “It just hasn’t come up. I’d like to think that if he knew that I knew, he’d be honest with me. But...there isn’t anything to tell. I know who my real dad is.”

 

“You do?”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles smiles then, something small and easy. “John Stilinski. The man who raised me, who loves me.”

 

Suddenly, Jackson gets it. Understands why Stiles is here. It makes him angry, vicious curls of rage bubbling up inside him. “It’s not the same---”

 

“No it isn’t,” Stiles cuts him off easily. “No one gave me up, no one didn’t want me. Probably. Maybe. But I’ll never know what my mother thought, and I’ll never ask my real father; he certainly hasn’t come out of the woodwork. I don’t even know if he knows about my existence. But there is one common factor we share Jackson.”

 

“What,” Jackson snaps, fangs biting into his lip.

 

“The parents we have....they _do_ want us.” Stiles leans over the coffee table. “You know me, you know my father. Did you ever once think that he wasn’t really mine?”

 

Jackson has, in the darker, deeper parts of his mind, been jealous of Stiles and his father, and the relationship they share. “No,” he admits, begrudgingly.

 

“Because you never doubted that he loved me.” Stiles stares at him, daring him to deny it and Jackson won’t, can’t, because it’s true. Stiles is the Sheriffs’ whole world. Everyone knows that. It was possible that was what Jackson was really jealous of. "Because that's what it boils down too. That's what matters. Genetically speaking, it never mattered that I wasn’t his. He loves me anyway. He doesn’t care, and neither do I.” He takes the picture back from Jackson. “She got knocked up by some married guy, from what I’ve gathered through family gossip. It’s suppose to be a secret, and it mostly is.  She _cheated_ on my dad, but even that didn’t matter. Because the moment my dad decided I was his, I was. He chose me.”

 

“Stilinski---”

 

“Just like your parents chose you,” Stiles cuts him off again, and it’s annoying, that habit, but Jackson doesn’t stop him. “Your parents chose you, Jackson. You weren’t an accident like 99.9% of other babies, like _me_. You weren’t a ‘happy surprise’ or an unfortunate mistake, or a combination of bad life choices like I was. Your mom and dad sat down and said ‘lets have a baby,’ and then they chose you. They gave you their name, and their love. You’re their life. They never had another, never adopted another. You were it for them, their baby. Your first word was probably mom and guess who you were referring too? Not some faceless woman who did nothing more than grow  you. They love you, regardless of genetics, regardless of birth. You _are_ their son.” Sitting back on the couch, Stiles’ gaze never wavers. “You just need to accept that.”

 

“They were going to get a divorce,” Jackson finds himself saying, gritted out between his teeth, betrayed by his own mouth, his own brain. “When they decided to adopt me. It was...a divorce, or a baby. They were having problems...my mom, she’s infertile, I guess. They separated, for a little bit. I was...a last ditch effort.”

 

“Well it worked.” Shrugging against the leather couch, Stiles grins. “Sixteen years later, they’re still together.” It’s...it means something, Jackson realizes. McCall’s parents are divorced, Lydias are separated, Stiles’ mom is dead, Issac’s mom left years ago, in the dead of night without a word, and Boyd lives with his grandparents, as far as Jackson knows. “You made their life together worth it.”

 

The front door opens at that moment, his parents pouring in one after another. They don’t notice them right away - Jackson doesn’t usually entertain in the den.  He watches as his father helps his mother out of her coat, smiling as she complains about what the rain does to her hair. For all his parents failings - and there are many - they really do love each other.

 

“Oh!” His mother says in surprise, as they take notice of he and Stiles. “Jackson...you’re home.” She sounds confused, and it makes guilt churn in his stomach. He’s been avoiding them. “And you have...a friend. Mr. Stilinski?”

 

“Hello Mrs.Whittamore,” Stiles says politely. It’s only then that Jackson remembers what a long and police-report-riddled history he has with him. “Sorry if I’m interrupting plans. Jackson and I were just...mending a few fences.”

 

His dad’s eyes narrow, mustache twitching angrily. “That’s a lot of fence to mend.”

 

His father is defending him, Jackson realizes. It’s absurd, except for how it isn’t. Stiles did kidnap and lock him in a van once. His father cares. Maybe even not just about appearances and his job title. There’s no one here to prove anything too.  “On both sides,” Jackson says quickly, because he’s not sure he deserves his fathers defense.

 

His mother shifts from foot to foot, looking lost and uncomfortable. “Would you like to stay for dinner, Mr. Stilinski? I could make chicken tetrazzini.”

 

It’s Jacksons favorite; he hasn’t had it in a while. 

 

“Oh I couldn’t,” Stiles says easily, lifting himself up from the couch. Jackson isn’t ready for him to leave, isn’t ready to be left alone with his parents, and Stiles words.

 

“Of course you can Stilinski.” He pins Stiles with a fierce look, and hopes it doesn’t come off as pathetic or pleading.

 

To his credit, Stiles gets it. “If it isn’t any trouble...”

 

“No trouble at all Genimi,” Jacksons father says, his voice stilted and awkward. Jackson wonders how he could get Stiles’ name wrong. Who the hell is Genimi?

 

Stiles...freezes, for lack of a better word. “It’s Stiles,” he corrects, wide-eyed and pale. “Call me Stiles. Only my mother ever called me Genimi.”

 

“Of course,” his father replies, awkward and red-faced. He follows Jacksons mother into the kitchen in a rush, leaving Jackson, Stiles and a whole new world of _what_ behind him.

 

_‘She got knocked up by some married guy’._

_'They seperated...for a little bit.'_

Stiles is eyeing the door in the same way Jackson had earlier, probably wondering what it would take to run.  Jackson catches him by the wrist.

 

“I...didn’t think he knew,” Stiles stutters out, heart hammering in his chest. Jackson can feel his panic, thrumming over the skin of Stiles’ palm, and up Jacksons arm. “I was never sure.”

 

"But you knew?" It would be cruel to make him stay, Jackson thinks, but a part of him still wants too. He doesn’t, he lets go of Stiles arm, and tilts his head to the door, knows his heart is beating just as fast, lodged in his throat.  His mind is stuck on a thought, a single thought, and it’s so shocking it hurts.  Did that make Stiles his brother?

 

Stiles laughs, but it isn't light anymore, isn't free. "My dad...really hates him." 

 

With that...he flees, leaving Jackson alone in the crisp, modern-colored den, with it’s barely used family couch and a world of new questions sitting heavily on his mind.

 

“Oh,” his mother says again, from the doorway of the den. His father is lurking behind her, his form casting a shadow against the wall. “Did your friend left?”

 

Jackson twitches. “Yeah, he...he had to get home after all. His dad was expecting him, I think.”

 

His mother makes a noise, a hummed sound of approval - the noise she makes when she’d rather smile instead but her crazy protestant upbringing won’t allow her. “Another day, maybe. It’s good to see you making friends outside of Danny, Jackson. I’m sure Mr. Stilinski is a nice boy, your particular history aside.”

 

“He....” Jackson isn’t sure Stiles is nice, per se. But he is kind, and brave, and loyal. “He’s alright.”

 

She looks so fucking happy - to have him home, to meet his friends- Jackson can barely stand it.  Beaming brightly, she suggest, "well maybe you can have him over some time, show him the TV room, or maybe the pool. I don't imagine the Sherriff makes terribly good money, it would be a nice treat for the young man." 

 

Jackson...can't help but smile at that. His mother _genuinely_ means it in the nicest ways, doesn't mean to sound careless or cruel or indifferent to lower social levels. She honestly wants Stiles to enjoy their TV room, their pool house.  She adores a good charity case, maybe because she was one, once upon a time. 

 

His father steps out from the kitchen, mustache twitching. “But, if he gives you any trouble---”

 

“Dad, that...that really was a misunderstanding,” Jackson breathes out, and fights the urge to fidget. His dad is worried about Stiles bullying Jackson. It’s absurd.

 

Jackson doesn’t understand the look on his dad’s face then, eyes riding high on his forehead. Even his mom looks shocked, mouth open in a silent gasp. “What?” He asks, irritably, uncomfortable in the silence.

 

Clearing his throat, Jacksons father shifts from foot to foot. “Nothing...it’s nothing---”

 

“No it is _not_ nothing,” his mother cuts him off rudely, elbowing him in the stomach. A smile like Jackon hardly sees these days spreads across her face. “You called him Dad.”

 

And so he had. Stiles words fresh in his mind, Jackson realized the only thing that kept Carol and James Whittamore from being his parents was him saying so.

 

“I’ve been stupid.” Jackson pushed up from the couch, and walked toward his parents. He wants to say more, apologize for being so stupid, so stubborn, beg forgiveness, something, but...he can’t. “Mom...Dad...I----”

 

It seems though, that it’s enough. His parents - that’s what they are, his parents, God he was stupid - pull him into a hug.  They hug him like he’s five again, like the pee-wee trophies don’t matter, and the spelling-bee ribbon is just that. They hug him like they use too, before the world got heavy, before Jackson _made_ it heavy.  And Jackson needs it, he fucking needs it, and God dammit, he won’t let it make him feel weak because these are his parents and he’s only sixteen and fuck, he needs them.

  
  


‘

 end (for now?)


End file.
